


Intemperate

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [14]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Sherlock in Love, Victorian, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 03:03:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5851606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh, what have you done to yourself now!” I shouted in complete exasperation. I had been engrossed in considering my finances, which were dismal, and in somewhat of a foul mood.</p>
<p>In one of the personal pieces that Dr John Watson has hidden in his dispatch box, he reflects on his changing relationship with Sherlock Holmes on various levels—including under water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intemperate

“Holmes! What’s happened to you?” I shouted in surprise.  
  
“An unexpected swim,” the detective admitted. His teeth were not actually chattering, but I believe it was only through supreme self-control on his part. He was utterly, completely drenched. His boots made horrible, wet sounds and a puddle began to form underneath him as he stood in the doorway.  
  
“Well, come in and get those wet things off,” I directed. He moved into the room, dripping all the way. I cringed as I watched his soggy progress across Mrs Hudson’s carpets. He tossed his ruined hat onto the hearth, where it would eventually begin to steam. His boots would need to be placed there as well.  
  
He headed toward his bedroom, moving awkwardly as his soaked clothing rubbed against his cold skin. I followed him.  
  
“I do not require your services, Doctor,” he grumbled. He was trying to sound stern, but the chattering teeth were beginning to win. He began—well, he attempted—to remove his coat, but his cold, stiff fingers could not manage the thick, wet wool and buttons.  
  
“Let me,” I offered, walking over to him.  
  
“Very well,” he acquiesced reluctantly.  
  
This was quite early in our relationship; I was still learning all of his foibles and he, mine. Still, as I believe I have commented earlier in my personal writing, I had discovered very soon after I had moved in Sherlock’s apparent lack of modesty, and realised quite quickly that, due to his tendency to get himself into situations such as this, it was to my advantage.  
  
“Let’s get all this off you and get you into something warm and dry,” I murmured. He stood as still as he was able, which was actually not very still at all, but I managed to strip his cold, sodden, and—as I discovered now—muddy clothing off him. When I had him down to his skin, I took up a towel and began to rub him down.  
  
“There,” I finally said. “Sit on the bed and I’ll get your hair dry.” As obedient as a child, he sat, and I gently towelled the dark hair—the curls springing up as I did so. “Now, into something dry.” I handed him the now-wet towel and turned in search of clothing for him. In almost no time I had him re-dressed in the warmest clothing I could find for him. I wrapped his thickest dressing gown around him (it was my favourite—a deep maroon that contrasted nicely with his ivory skin and complimented his dark hair).  
  
“Now, come out by the fire and I’ll get some hot food for you,” I instructed, tugging at his hand. In retrospect I realise that even at that early stage, we had a physical familiarity between us that was not exactly typical. Back then, I told myself that it was because I was his doctor and that he was—well, at times—an idiot. I admit to myself now that it was, even then, a lie. I liked touching him. I liked holding his hand and pulling him toward me. I like towelling him dry. I liked brushing my wrist against his high, white forehead to check for signs of fever when he needed me to. I liked all of it.  
  
I tried not to think about it back then, but I especially liked stripping him and bundling him back up. There was something very soothing about it that I did not understand for some time, but I do now. [a note from Sherlock: _I was very fond of it from the start as well, but I thought that perhaps it was not appropriate, so I did not bring it up._ ]  
  
But we were not intimate in that way yet. It was all very impersonal as I pulled him out into the sitting room and guided him to his easy chair, which was closest to the fire. I wrapped him in a blanket and poked up the fire.  
  
“Stay there,” I told him. “I will return immediately.” I headed down the stairs.   
  
“Mrs Hudson?” I tapped on her door.  
  
“Yes, Doctor?”   
  
“Mr Holmes has gotten himself into a bit of trouble—”  
  
“Goodness! What happened?”  
  
“I believe he fell—or possibly jumped—into some cold water. He’s soaked quite through.”  
  
“I’ll bring up something hot for him at once,” she exclaimed.  
  
Eventually, between us, we got him warmed up. Mrs Hudson had brought him some lovely hot porridge, heavily laced with treacle and butter, and despite his shivering (which at times nearly dislodged the spoon from his fingers), he managed to get it all down. I took away the empty bowl and handed him a glass of sherry.  
  
“Thank you,” he murmured.  
  
“What happened?” I finally demanded, my curiosity getting the best of me.  
  
“It is a darker night than I realised…” he began.  
  
*  
  
It was, as it has been for hours now, a dreadful night, and I was glad to be indoors, warm and dry, as the wind howled around the corners of the building and down the street. I was not very pleased when, several hours earlier, Sherlock had headed out into the wild weather. He would not share his destination with me, which essentially doubled my displeasure, and I shouted a warning as he headed down the stairs: “Do not expect me to come to your rescue if you get into any trouble!”  
  
I was lying—we both knew that—but any rescue efforts would be contingent on my knowing where he was going and him somehow communicating any great need for rescue back to me. It was hopeless from the start. I grumbled quite a bit after he left, then settled down to attend to my bills.  
  
He had come back in three hours later, sodden, and he stood in the doorway, dripping on the floor, apparently somewhat hesitant to enter. He was truly soaked through, I realised—his condition was the result of more than even a heavy rain.  
  
“Oh, what have you done to yourself now!” I shouted in complete exasperation. I had been engrossed in considering my finances, which were dismal, and in somewhat of a foul mood.   
  
“Slight miscalculation,” Sherlock admitted, looking at me sheepishly.  
  
“Bedroom. Now.” I gestured emphatically in the direction of his room. He gave me a woeful look, then nodded and headed in. I dropped my pencil and followed. “You are a great idiot,” I pointed out, completely unnecessarily as I began the now-so-familiar routine of stripping him.  
  
“Probably, yes,” he managed. His teeth were clenched and it was obvious that he was trying to prevent them from chattering.  
  
I reached for his head automatically, but then exclaimed, “What happened to your hat?” I had belatedly realised that it was missing.  
  
“Floated away,” he admitted.  
  
I couldn’t help it. He was just so ridiculous sometimes. I burst out laughing. “Oh, let me,” I commanded as he fumbled with his buttons. “There,” I finally said as I got him bare. I pushed him firmly back onto his bed as I retrieved a towel. I admit, I rubbed perhaps a bit more briskly than was warranted. He winced as his curls, which were springing up in protest against their mistreatment, tangled with the rough towelling. “Now, into something dry.” I tossed the now-wet towel in the general direction of his dressing table and turned in search of clothing for him. Eventually I had him re-dressed—his poor feet were like blocks of ice and I slowed myself down a bit as I carefully worked warm wool stockings on them. I finished my efforts with his most comfortable dressing gown (the blue one that brings out his eyes).  
  
“Now, come sit by the fire and I’ll get Mrs Hudson to make you something hot,” I directed. His poor hands were icicles as well, and after I got him seated I rubbed them a bit between my own hands before tucking him under a blanket. I added coal to the fire, wondering how long it would be before Mrs Hudson got the next delivery. “Stay there,” I told him unnecessarily. I shook my head as I headed downstairs.  
  
“Mrs Hudson?” I pushed her door open gently. She was sitting by her own fire, book in hand.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“He’s done it again—” I began sheepishly.  
  
“Does he need warming up or cooling down?” she remarked drily.  
  
“Warming up.”  
  
She gave a great sigh and, dropping her book to the floor, rose. “That man is never the right temperature,” she grumbled.  
  
I laughed as I ascended our seventeen steps.  
  
*  
  
“How are you doing?” I inquired. Sherlock seemed to be thawing out a bit. He had drunk Mrs Hudson’s hot tea straight down and was now settled back under his covers with a book. He had avoided looking directly at me since I had returned from my task. Having gotten him as comfortable as I could, I sat back down at my desk and resumed my arithmetic.  
  
“You do not have to worry about all that.”  
  
His voice startled me. I raised my head from my papers and looked across the room at him. He was holding his book carelessly in one hand and peering keenly in my direction. I had been working for about half an hour and he had not made a sound the entire time. Indeed, it had been so peaceful that I had been able to discern the slight ruffle as he turned each page, and nothing else.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Those bills. You do not need to be concerned about them.”  
  
“And how is that to come to pass?” I wondered a bit snappishly.  
  
“If you will reach into the inside pocket of my coat—” I had rather decoratively draped all his wet garments on the furniture, and we both glanced around trying to locate it— “you will find something that I am hoping was not completely ruined by the water. I put it in there after I fell in, so it did not actually get soaked when I did.”  
  
“So you fell in?” I commented, finding his coat (which, now that it was drying, smelled a bit odd as well) and reaching into it gingerly. The object was, to be sure, damp, but he had cleverly folded it into his notebook and therefore it had been protected from the worst. I looked carefully at it. My mouth fell open. I nearly dropped it in shock.  
  
It was a cheque, and it was signed by an extremely prominent member of society.  
  
That was not the entire reason for my shock, however.   
  
It was a cheque for five hundred pounds.  
  
“I… what did you do…?” I could not frame a response.  
  
“I unfortunately cannot tell you what I did, but be assured, I did earn that honestly, and it is for both of us.”  
  
“What do you mean?” I asked a bit warily. “It says ‘Pay to Sherlock Holmes’.”  
  
“But I intend it to be for both of us. John, you do so much to help me with my investigations—even when you are not actually with me on a case. You earn some money from your stories, but I know that your medical practice has essentially died off completely—that was truly not meant to sound that way—that you do not have the time or regular hours that a doctor requires to maintain a solid practice—and that is because of me and my profession. You take care of my injuries and my illnesses. You assist me with my experiments (particularly the ones that have gone awry). You apologise for me and remind me to pay my bills. You read to me when I cannot rest. You… I never slept well until we began to share a bed. I cannot determine an actual figure for all of those things, so that payment is to keep both of us well for quite a long time. Is that acceptable?”  
  
I admit that I was speechless. I placed the cheque carefully on my desk blotter and put a clean sheet of paper over it so it would dry flat and fairly intact. Then I approached him in his chair.  
  
“Are you warm enough?” I managed to croak; my throat was tight with emotion. I rather pointedly poked up the fire, my back to him.  
  
“I believe that I would be warmer in bed,” he admitted.  
  
“Not alone,” I stated.  
  
“No. Not alone. Never alone—not anymore.”  
  
It was not a night for passion. I dressed both of us in comfortable nightclothes and ensured that he was well covered before I slipped into the bed beside him. He lay on his right side and I on my left, and our foreheads touched as we looked into each other’s eyes.  
  
“I never intended for you to… keep me,” I whispered.  
  
“I never intended for anything at all,” he responded. “I wanted someone to share these rooms. I never anticipated that that person would turn out to be my—”  
  
He stopped abruptly, his brow furrowed.  
  
“What is the matter?” I asked, reaching up and brushing his cheek with my free hand.  
  
“I find myself grasping for a word. You are so much to me—you are my doctor, my colleague. My roommate. My friend. My Boswell. My lover. Is there a word for all that?”  
  
“I am not entirely sure,” I replied as evenly as I could. His sincere and tender tone was touching me greatly.  
  
“Then there must not be,” he decided. “So, perhaps, it will work if I simply call you mine. _My_ John— with the understanding of all that phrase encompasses. Will that do?”  
  
“I like the sound of that.” I kissed him gently. “Now, my darling, please go to sleep. We will go to the bank tomorrow, together.”  
  
“Yes, John.”  
  
He sighed and closed his eyes, worn out from his adventure. I found that I could not do the same. I did not wish to go to sleep. I wanted to watch him. But, eventually, my eyelids began to feel heavy, and just as I slipping into the arms of Morpheus, I dimly heard him say one more thing, after which I shushed him and we were both able to sleep.   
  
He simply said, “I do love you, John.”  
  
[Sherlock has, as he usually does, written a postscript: _I have learned that one can actually calculate all that, but that seems rather not the point._ John has replied: _No, it is not the point. But thank you anyway._ And then, written very small, as there is not much room left on the sheet, is a final note from the detective: _I truly do love you._ ]  
  



End file.
